Animus
by maddening
Summary: On the day that Fenris meets his sister things do not go as planned, resulting in the world unfolding in a very different way for Hawke, Fenris, and the rest of their companions in Kirkwall. Eventual Hawke/Fenris
1. Chapter 1

Hawke was about to die.

This wasn't one of those moments where you look back and think, "Maker! That was close!"

No, this was one of those moments where, in the middle of a fight you know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you are moments away from being killed. Not even a matter of it being a wrong move or a missed step. Nothing you could prevent or change. It was simply your time. It was something that Varric might write – some romanticized idea of what fighting and struggling was like so that those who never did it could wrap their head around the concept in one of his novels.

It didn't surprise her that she recognized the moment, only that it hadn't come sooner. If anyone had been begging for death over the last five or six years, it had been her. She thought that she'd fight it when the time came, was sure it would be a narrow thing, something she almost escaped. She hadn't expected the clear-headedness – the acceptance. She supposed that learning something new about yourself on the day you died wasn't so bad. At least you didn't have to deal with the soul searching.

And thinking about the fact that she was about to die at least distracted her from the pain. She wasn't quite sure how far above the floor she was just now, but it was at least a few feet. The air that encased her was thick with the red mist of her own blood, swirling around her like she was the calm, broken center of a hurricane. She knew a number of her bones were hopelessly shattered – that had happened early on when a simple blasting spell had taken her off guard and blown her back into the wall along with Merrill. Hawke had gotten back up, feeling the hitch in her side and the slow trickle of warmth from the back of her skull as one of her daggers fell away from her useless mangled hand.

Merrill was still there in a crumpled mass on the floor.

Now the pain of broken bones was joined by warring feelings of being heavily constricted, like she'd been swaddled in bands of iron that were slowly being cinched ever tighter, and the feeling of being pulled apart.

Dazed, she turned her eyes down – since her head wouldn't actually move – and watched as her blood came out of the pores of her skin, joining in rivulets down her arms and then leaping off and away to join the storm already around her. How much blood did she have left? It couldn't be much at this point.

Turning her eyes in the other direction, she saw Varric doing what he'd promised. He was dragging Fenris out of the Hanged Man, away from the fight. She'd made him swear before they went in that if things went the way they were going right now, that he would get Fenris away from Danarius. That even if the rest of them died, he would ensure that this bastard never got back his prized slave. Watching the heavily injured elf being dragged out of the place, painting a wide swath of blood with his body, Hawke felt… happy. Varric would take him to Anders. Anders would heal him. And Danarius would limp back to Minrathous empty handed yet again.

She'd never met the man before today but had already developed such a hatred for him that it sometimes made Fenris himself blink in surprise when she let fly waves of invective and promises about what she would do to significant and soft portions of Danarius' anatomy.

Rolling her eyes again, she spotted him there, casting whatever this was, this paralysis that held her. His look was both intense and self-satisfied – the look of a man utterly assured of his power. And Hawke had to hand it to him – he was indeed powerful. He was certainly the most accomplished blood mage she'd encountered. Improving his odds was the fact that he was willing to use any and all of the slavers he'd brought along with him as fuel. But fuel without talent was useless, and this man knew how to hurt. He was proving that now as she felt her heart constrict once again in her chest, as if it were convulsing – giving up.

She caught Danarius' eye, staring at him, wanting him to watch her as she died, defiant. That smug expression faltered only slightly, the flush of being absolutely glutted with the power of blood making him look drunk with it, ecstatic. She hoped what she saw in his gaze was a flicker of doubt. But it didn't matter.

He would leave without Fenris. And she would stop her long fight. She decided that the moment was a good one. She wished briefly that she could move her face enough to smile as the blackness rose up and then she didn't think anything at all anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

Fenris became aware of several things all at once.

Voices, carefully removed and whispering low to avoid being overheard.

The resounding ache in his chest, throbbing in time with his heart.

The smell of Anders' clinic.

This was all wrong. Where was Danarius? Why was he here at all? If he'd lost his fight he should be dead or on a ship headed back to the Imperium. But he didn't remember the end of the battle, couldn't piece it together. Opening his eyes just a touch, he realized it was night, the only light in the room being cast by a lantern somewhere off behind him near where the voices emanated from. So many hours had passed. They'd gone to the Hanged Man very early in the morning, his eagerness to know the truth about his sister pushing him to stalk over to Hawke's mansion where he'd paced restlessly in the front room until Bodahn had given up on allowing his mistress to sleep any longer and finally roused her.

Varric met them there and they stopped only long enough to pick up the Dalish witch from the alienage at Hawke's insistence that at least one mage with them would be a good idea should anything go awry. And then … Varania.

Fenris opened his eyes fully then and looked around the room. And there she was, cowering in the corner of the clinic staring at him in open shock. Eyes like his, skin like his, shock of red hair like the woman he'd seen snatches of, half remembered. As he maneuvered his legs off the side of the pallet he was on she screeched out "He's awake!"

His intent had been to go to her and rip her heart from her chest, but his feet had barely touched the floor before he crumpled with them, weak and useless legs denying him while his markings still flared, burning brighter than the lamp. Varric was there in just a moment, standing between Fenris and his sister, hands out in a pleading fashion. "Hold on there, elf. You need to rest. Anders just finished putting you back together – we don't have enough lyrium on hand for him to have to do it a second time so soon."

He felt hands on his arm – Anders, he knew without even looking given the sickly way his markings reacted to the touch – and he pulled them roughly away. "Leave me."

Anders heaved out a sigh "Fine, stay on the floor. But you're not going anywhere in your condition unless you mean to pull yourself through Darktown on your belly. Not that I'm putting it past you to _slither away_."

Varric cleared his throat, obviously attempting to silence the mage. "Can I help you up, or are you bent on ripping open your wounds doing it yourself?"

Fenris gave it thought. He didn't particularly want any help but he could feel the shudder and pull of his chest and even holding himself on his arms caused them to quaver. He gave a single nod and held out a hand toward the dwarf, who gingerly took hold of his gauntlet and grabbed a handful of the back of the elf's armor to help hoist him upright. Even in his pain he noted how carefully Varric placed his hands and was thankful for it. He felt… wrong.

Once he was seated again on the oversized bench that passed for a cot in the clinic, he took a few experimental deep breaths. Seeing his discomfort, Varric provided an answer to the question he hadn't yet formed in his own mind. "One of the slavers got you. You're gonna have to get that armor repaired – it went through and through. From what Blondie says your heart took some damage as well as a lung. I've been here pouring lyrium potions down his throat for the last few hours so he could keep your ticker going."

"And why is _she_ here?"

Varric let out a long sigh. "She's here because she got left behind and I didn't know what else to do with her."

Fenris took a long look at his sister. Just now anger was the only thing he felt about the entire situation but he knew that wouldn't last. He'd become a surprisingly – to himself anyway – multi-varied person in the last several years and knew that his own emotional range would come bearing down on him turning this into sorrow for what could have been soon enough. So he used his invective while it was still strong, spitting out at her, "So your _Master_ decided he didn't want you after all? Was it worth it?"

For her part, Varania simply looked back at him, huge green eyes filled with tears, chin quivering. She was the very picture of defeat and it did nothing to warm him or spur him on. She had represented some hope for him, some measure of knowledge and security – a family! – and that had all shattered the moment Danarius had come arrogantly swaying down those steps. Used and manipulated yet again – it should just be one more instance in a long line but it wasn't… it was different.

He tore his eyes away from her and looked around the clinic. Anders was currently bent over another figure along the far wall, also laid out on a table. From this angle, Fenris could see little of them but assumed it was one of the many denizens of Darktown who utilized the healer's abilities – little caring what he might be as long as they got what they needed. But then the healer shifted away and he realized it was Merrill, so miniscule that Anders' bulk had nearly blocked her completely.

"Is she… " He hated that he was even concerned, but there is was…

"She'll be okay. She's sleeping. Took a nasty bump to the head," Anders answered him as he came back over, holding out a bottle to Fenris. "Drink this."

As with anything the healer proffered, he looked at it with suspicion, causing Anders to roll his eyes. "Andraste's flaming head, it's just a healing potion to take speed things along."

Fenris reluctantly took the flask, careful not to brush the mage's fingers as he did so and shot it back. The heaviness in his chest eased somewhat and a pleasant coolness spread through his limbs almost immediately. Hawke's voice in his head chastised him to say "thank you" but she wasn't here, so he merely nodded at the man.

And with that thought…

"Varric, where is Hawke?"

The look that came over their faces when he asked – Anders, angry, distraught; Varric, tense, eyes sad – spoke well enough for him to guess. But he waited nonetheless.

"She… I don't know." Varric never spoke that haltingly.

"You don't know?"

"I… When I went back for Daisy she wasn't there and… " he trailed off, shaking his head. Anders took up the sentence for him.

"There was far too much blood, Fenris – most of it hers. And she wasn't there. Just… one of her daggers."

"But you did not find a body."

Varric shook his head "No, no body, but Fenris, she…"

He felt his rage building again and he stood, towering over the dwarf, "She _what_, Varric? You just _left_ her there?"

"It's what she wanted, you idiot. She made me promise to get you out of there if things went south and that's exactly what I did. I got back there as quickly as I could but there was no sign of her."

"And why aren't you out looking for her? Is Aveline? Is Isabela?"

Varric shook his head, making it clear that they all just assumed she was dead.

He felt his markings flare again, dragging up from somewhere deep within him, unbidden and fueled by the injustice of the thing. "GO AND FIND HER, VARRIC," He bellowed, barely restraining himself from taking the dwarf in hand himself. To think that they'd just left her – after everything she'd done for every one of them – left her to Danarius and hadn't bothered to even try to find her. He felt his heart hammering wildly and the pain that caused made him pant as he tried to once again make his way out the clinic doors. Void take them if they'd just leave her behind – he certainly wouldn't.

As that sureness built and he took his third step and his forth so too did the blackness begin to well up underneath it until it overtook him, landing him once again in the dirt of the floor, unconscious.


	3. Chapter 3

The boat rocked. It had been rocking, cresting swells, speeding through the water at a ridiculous clip for days. The seasickness had already gone well beyond the point of distressing her. Her stomach was emptied in to the hold around her, on her, and there was nothing left but the ache so it hardly mattered when she retched. And retch she did, again and again for a long time after she woke up on the ship, half dead, ignored in the hold that was swamped with more than two handspans of sea water that she was left sat in the middle of. At least it had managed to wash away most of the vomit.

And still the ship clipped along, skipping across waves, faster than sails alone could possibly take it. She could even imagine the cadre of mages up on the deck, hastening the wind, calming the seas, speeding their arrival. She'd heard sailors talking back and forth above her in what she assumed was Tevine – her only experience with it being the snatches of things that Fenris occasionally said. Fenris… now there was a thought to warm her heart. The water in the hold was warm and sweat poured off of her but her limbs felt frozen through, her teeth chattering. Sure signs of shock and fever, making her feel distanced from her body, making her feel numb. She was sure that she was on a ship bound for parts north, somewhere in the Imperium or at least Imperium controlled. But Fenris wasn't on it. And she could just imagine that those tense Tevinter words spoken above her were laced with wariness and fear of their master and his intense displeasure at not having captured his intended prize. Fenris was back in Kirkwall. Not safe, but also not here. And that was good enough for now.

The fact that she'd woken up at all had been a surprise initially. But then it quickly seemed like just her luck. Of course she wasn't dead. Of course she was speeding toward some fresh nightmare. Danarius was either betting on Fenris following her in a bid to perform a rescue or he knew exactly who she was and thought that dealing with an angry hellion of a woman was worth the annoyance of having The Champion of Kirkwall on a leash. Feynriel had made it clear that the stories about the Champion had reached Tevinter. Qunari killer, Arishok vanquisher. It would have only been a better story for them were she a mage or a Tevinter citizen.

They hadn't bothered to feed her – it simply would have come back up. A crewman had lumbered down, grabbed her face, and poured part of a skein of water down her throat the day before. Or, well, she assumed it was the day before. Truthfully she couldn't be sure of her own sense of time. All this time by herself, feverish, aching in ways she hadn't experienced since her fight with the Arishok, she'd had plenty of time to think. None of the scenarios she came up with were pleasant. She could be put on display, she could be made a slave, she could just be sold off and paraded around. From what she understood about Danarius from Fenris – even the little he was willing to talk about – there was really no way to know to what depths he'd sink. Especially since she was sure that he was annoyed with the situation. She may be a consolation prize, but she was a poor one put next to Fenris. And she had no doubt that he'd take every ounce of the disappointment out on her in some way.

….

Judging that they were at least giving her a cup of water every other day, the calamitous ship movement began to slow roughly a week after they'd left Kirkwall. By her reckoning, on a normal voyage they'd only be… Maker, not even halfway to Rivain. She doubted they were going to Rivain. Rivain would be nice though. Isabela could show her around and Fenris could grumble about roughly everything. She would gamble with Raiders and she would buy Bethanny a new kerchief in a bright and bold pattern and… Varric some sort of floppy hat… and her… mother would like some silks, certainly. And Carver a new sword.

Shaking her head roughly, Hawke tried to pull herself out of whatever fugue she was falling into. Mother was dead. Carver was dead. Bethanny… even her sweet Bethanny was dead. The fever was worse than she'd thought and had only increased in intensity in the days that had passed. Maybe it was the lack of food, the lack of water, the lack of light except for what filtered down through a few plank spaces above her head. As the sailors above her talked more, calling out orders to each other, scurrying above the deck, she tried to connect herself to her current situation. It was an interminable amount of time later when the hold was finally opened and several sets of heavy feet rattled down the slanted ladder toward her. She found she could hardly focus on the shapes, starkly back lit from the sun that seared her eyes. She had the sense of figures around her, legs in her line of vision, and then a bag pulled over her head before her hands were released from the wall of the hold where they'd been shackled and she was hauled up. She attempted to gain her feet, but the men moved too fast and she was too weak, so she simply gave up. They would drag her wherever they liked anyway – the dignity of standing on her own hardly mattered at this point.

She had no plan, no thought of escape. She was captured and that was that. It didn't even wound her pride, it was simply a fact. It was strange to feel so… at peace… with the surrender of her destiny. Maybe it was some hold over from knowing in her heart of hearts that she should be dead. This was just some strange afterlife that she had no say in. This was just more things that were continuing to happen to her without her input or her opinion. Her toes scraped along the ladder and then she was unceremoniously dropped, her head bouncing off the wood planking, not enough strength in her to even instinctively put out her hands.

The drop also reawakened her body, the pain which had receded from her conscious mind leaping back, making her nerves sing in reminder. Here she felt the intense throb at the back of her head. There she felt the broken ribs, making breathing difficult. Across her arms and legs, lacerations minor and deep from the slavers who had gotten through her armor throbbed and burned as she lamely tried to move, their scabs stretching and breaking and oozing fresh blood. Even through the rough-hewn cloth of the hood her head felt hot where it laid on her hands though she continued to shiver. Did Danarius neglect all of his prizes this way or was this a special statement about how little she mattered?

And thinking of him – she kept expecting some word from the man himself; some snide commentary on her state, some crowing proclamation of her defeat. But there was nothing. People on the deck moved around her, sometimes over her. The industry involved in docking a ship continuing on without interruption. She was a bundle of cargo and they'd get to her eventually.

And it continued that way. She had no way of gauging how long. She curled onto her side, wrapped her arms around her aching chest, grabbing handfuls of the undershirt she wore (it and long breeches were what she'd woken in – the simple garments she wore under her armor padding, having been stripped of everything else), white knuckled, wracked with convulsive shivers that sent new waves of pain crashing through her when they hit. She could feel the warmth of the sun on the wet fabric, finding the air thick and humid, even accounting for the hood she breathed through. She was almost certainly in Tevinter or Seheron. Few other places were quite this sultry this time of year.

Would anyone come for her? Did anyone know she was even alive? Her impulses warred at the thought. She didn't want to be here and she likely would not be able to escape herself. But she also hated the thought that anyone would put themselves in danger for her. She'd done this to avoid that very eventuality - to avoid the possibility of any of them being hurt. But she also knew them and knew that when Fenris woke, he'd be impossible to talk down from whatever course he chose. She'd have been able to do it, perhaps; work out some compromise. But not Varric, and certainly not Aveline. They wouldn't know how to talk to him about this, how to get through to him. She found herself hoping, perhaps praying, that they simply told him she was dead.

The thought of him coming after her made her chest hurt. In fear and in hope and she couldn't take the pain of either.

…..

_AN: Yep, the chapters are shorter. Yes, there's a reason for that at this point. I got a lot of negative reactions about this story and it made me lose my drive to keep writing it. I've decided that I can't let that dictate what I want to do, so negative train away! I'm still going to write what I want. ;)  
(also, new Diluviate stuff going up in the next day or two – probably a couple chapters at a whack since I kept you guys waiting). _


	4. Chapter 4

Fenris paced relentlessly across the room at the top of the stairs. He'd considered branching out and pacing the whole crumbling mansion but last year there had been some sort of cave in along the western side and he had no idea just how damaged it was or if there was even a path through it anymore. He had never exactly spread out throughout the whole place so looking into the structural damage was of no interest to him as long as the walls and the roof over the room he slept in remained intact.

It had been a week. A full week of finding nothing more than an empty dock, a lot of blood, and at least 20 dead slavers arrayed throughout the Hanged Man. A week in which Fenris had recovered and then shouted, cajoled, and eventually begged any one of Hawke's companions to do something about her disappearance. Aveline took it seriously, he knew. Varric did as well. But neither of them were _doing_ anything and the waiting for action was making him feel vaguely insane.

He understood their well-reasoned explanations for why they had to wait. They were all sure that she was not dead. Varric said that the last he'd seen of her involved her being suspended in mid-air, grunting and gurgling as a veritable vortex of blood was pulled from her. But this was the same woman who had been hoisted aloft not once, but twice, upon the Arishok's blade and who had managed to hold her own guts in her body with one arm while she stood over the man's body. So what would be a sure death for anyone else could have easily been just an unfortunate moment in a longer fight.

But even that may have simply been fond wishes. And because they couldn't be sure that she was even alive it was premature to set off to Minrathous in pursuit. Frankly, they had no way of even knowing that she would be taken _there_ if she was taken at all. Danarius had a base of operations in Seheron as well, closer to the endless fighting with the Qunari and the Fog Warriors.

Despite all of that, despite knowing he was foolish and annoyed and being utterly reckless he needed to do something about this and soon. He hadn't slept for more than brief spells where exhaustion finally over took him and forcefully pulled him under. And the fade was not kind with its visions in those brief forays into sleep. The feelings faded quickly upon waking, but he had the sense that he was remembering things from his own enslavement, little visions, memories… often just the sense of anger, resentment… humiliation.

And when he was awake it was no better. He couldn't stop thinking through all the things that could have happened to her. He knew what Danarius – what any Magister – did to their captives. Especially women. While Danarius' tastes ran more to power and dominance than the carnal, he'd never been above using his body as part of that play for dominance. He'd use any tool at his disposal. And Fenris, Maker damn him, found himself thankful that Marian Hawke had no family left to be used against her. Even Danarius wouldn't see Gamlen as a potential leverage point and he was the only one of them still alive.

Fenris made another circuit of his room, just skirting the broken glass in the corner and stepping over one of the benches he'd hammered into splinters the night before. This was one of the dangers of getting close to people. This was why for three years he hadn't spent long enough in one place to make any connections. Aiming a foot at a chair as he passed it, he cursed himself. This wasn't an inconvenient complication and he knew it. This was Hawke – his first and closest friend. While Varric, Aveline, and even Donnic had become close companions over the years he'd been in Kirkwall, Hawke was… different. The others hadn't had to put in the work – and he knew that he had been _work_. Hawke, however, had been the one to continue to show up, continue to talk to him, and continue again and again to take his temper and his rudeness, and his unrelenting anger and somehow weather it all. He'd often been taciturn and sometimes downright mean. He still recoiled at the thing he'd spit at her after he'd killed Hadriana. "What has magic touched that it has not spoiled?" And he knew even as it passed his lips that it was undue anger leveled right at her. Her mage sister, her mage father, her whole lineage of magic that had somehow passed her by but had not in the least left her untouched.

And Hawke… she was not spoiled. On the contrary, it had simply made her… more. More than all the other people he'd ever known. She'd taught him to read without rancor, without mockery. She'd spent endless hours simply waiting for him to talk. She'd smiled at him, made him laugh, made him… feel. And every vile thing he'd ever spit at her she simply took – took it and dealt with it and moved on.

She rarely talked about her family, even when some of them were still alive. While Varric would endlessly poke and prod for the details, Fenris knew that sometimes not talking about something had nothing to do with not finding a willing audience and everything to do with having no words to form the truth of things. On the few occasions, typically deep in their cups, when Hawke had spoken of her father, of Carver, it had been with a sad fondness and distance that made it clear that she knew exactly what price her family had paid for having magic in its midst. While she herself never blamed her father for the stilted and brutal life she'd had to lead, Fenris found it difficult not to. He was the father, he was the parent, the adult – and beyond anything else that Fenris assumed about families, he had always assumed that the paramount priority of a father was to protect his children. But her father hadn't done that – not for Hawke anyway. He'd condemned her in a million tiny ways from the moment she was born, made her sharp, made her strong, made her vigilant. All of them admirable qualities. But qualities built on the foundation of fear and "what ifs" that had plagued her since as far back as she could remember.

She'd related a story once of being a toddler, her mother heavy with what was soon to be her brother and sister. They were found as they moved slowly through the forests after someone in their last village cast suspicion upon her father. He'd been knocked down by the Templar that took them by surprised, sapped by a power that severed his connection to the Fade and left him weak and gasping. Instead of hiding as her mother had, Marian Hawke, all of four years old, snatched up a fallen branch and stood over her father, staring down the Templar defiantly.

Hawke told the story as a point of failure, a moment of weakness that she swore never to return to. But for Fenris, it was different. It hardly mattered to him that she'd been easily brushed aside, that her rain of blows came to nothing against the man's armor. It hardly mattered to him that her father had himself pulled out a dagger and slain the Templar to save his family. The image of that child, raven haired, blue eyed, fierce, standing stalwart as a shield between danger and what she held dear was what stuck with him. It was only a thin hint at the woman who was to come, but he could see it so clearly – her strength manifest even then.

That was why he asked her to come with him that day. That was exactly the reason he needed her to be there as he faced his past, his family, the possibility of a life that was… his. He wouldn't have been able to face it otherwise, without knowing she was there with him. He would never use her as his shield – but as his support? As the underpinnings that kept him true? She'd been that and more since he'd first met her, even when he didn't want it.

And what had happened? She'd been… taken. Had to have been taken. She couldn't be dead. She simply couldn't be. He refused the very thought, wouldn't allow the possibility to take shape in his mind.

Fenris found himself at a standstill in the center of the room. Hawke couldn't be dead. He… he wasn't sure that he could go on if she was.

Slumping to the floor, head to his knees. Fenris found himself on the edge of keening, so great was the pain that gripped him – just as if he hadn't been healed, as if his heart was still torn. His first friend and it was his fault that she was taken by the same man who had destroyed his own life. He'd done this to her. She'd placed herself between him and the danger that stalked him and he'd utterly failed in ensuring that her strength was rewarded. He hadn't asked her to, but he knew well enough what her nature was. He knew that's exactly what she would do if it came to it. So this… it was his fault… and… and there was nothing he could do except wait and then follow.

And follow he would. For as long as it took, as far as it took. And he would ensure that Danarius paid dearly for whatever he did to her.


	5. Chapter 5

Hawke laid as still as possible on the stone floor, arms and legs outstretched to get as much contact as possible with the only moderately cooler surface. Sweat trickled downward all over her body. It pooled in the hollow at the front of her neck, in her navel. When she moved to find a new cool spot to stretch out in she left behind a wet patch that quickly dissipated in the intense heat.

The journey through the docks and the market place on that first day had ill prepared her for the true temperature of the place. And this cell with its mockery of a window slit high up on the wall, barely far enough across to let in a tiny beam of light, allowed no air flow. It was as if they'd built these enclosures directly over the kitchen ovens. Occasionally she imagined whole groups of slaves toiling endlessly below her, stoking the fires that surely caused this room to boil and steam and the way it did.

Her fever was gone – and she almost missed it. That first day when she'd been tossed into the cell and left, she was sure she was going to die. The pain and the chills that shuddered through her were frightening. She laid there for hours – only belatedly realizing she could take off her hood – not even bothering to look around her, understand where she was. At some point a healer had come in. She was accustomed to the way healing felt. The truth was – it hurt. Your bones being knit back together, your skin regrowing and closing… it felt just like the bone breaking or the skin being cut in the first place… just in reverse so that at the end of it you felt whole again. The best healers, healers like Anders, knew how to minimize that pain, how to move carefully and slowly where needed, quickly where it was best to. It was still uncomfortable, of course, but always done with care and with attention to how the patient reacted. This healer who saw her – he was either a sadist or simply unpracticed. She didn't imagine that there was much call in Tevinter for teaching healers how to be gentle. There probably wasn't much call for the healing arts at all since they were so fond of using blood magic for everything.

He technically did an adequate job of healing her wounds, diagnosing her fever and administering a rank tasting tea to reduce the effects, and a general examination of her to assess her overall health. But his magic was not gentle. And his reaction or lack thereof made it clear that he did not care. It had likely never occurred to him that his patients shouldn't writhe in agony while he ministered to them. He healed the way his teachers had taught him and their teachers before them. It was somehow more violating this way. All heavy handed and dead eyed without a word to her or at her. When he needed her moved, he told a guard to do it. When he examined her, it was with bizarrely icy hands that stabbed at her wounds without regard for the way she cried out. And when he was finished he left without a word, the door closing behind him and leaving her there on the floor where she'd largely remained for the last few days.

After the first day she realized that the place was infested with lice and fleas. She could lay on the floor and watch them ping off of the little pile of rags left in the corner – she assumed it was meant to be serve as a bed. The only other item in the room was a bucket fitted into a bracket in the far corner. A hatch build low in the door had been opened , food tossed in - a stale roll, a mealy apple – and a hand had remained there in the opening outstretched. After a moment of pause it impatiently snapped at her. After another moment of dangling there in the air, the figure crouched down and their face appeared. A painfully thin elderly elven man stared at her with huge eyes – a result of his emaciation. He pointed at the bucket and then waved his hand again. So Hawke removed the bucket, sloshing with the scant amount of urine she'd been able to pass, and handed it over. She was promptly handed a new bucket and the hatch closed again.

She had just discovered something lower on the ladder than simply being a slave – being the slave who cleaned up the piss and shit and vomit of other slaves.

And so it went, day after day. She lay in the heat, sweated, waited for the hands of slaves to direct her in the ways of this place, and in between just… existed. Water was doled out by guards – a ladle through the grate and whatever you caught in your cupped hands was what you got – twice a day. No one came to see her. No one showed up to tell her what would happen to her. The guards didn't even look at her – pointedly so, as if they'd been admonished not to. It was just a guess though since she couldn't see anyone else held in any other cells, only hear the clatter of the food slave going to other door hatches further down the corridor.

No one came for her. No one directed her to do anything, gave her any idea what her eventual fate would be. Unwilling to play her role in whatever sort of game this was, she was uncharacteristically quiet. Normally she'd have cajoled and harassed, tried to get a reaction, tried to get someone to drop some comment or hint. But it just felt like that was… giving in. No, she'd be just as silent as the food slave. She'd be a thing, sitting there, breathing, taking up space without existing. But as the days went on it did begin to needle her. Nearly killed, carted across the ocean and dumped in a cell – for what? Was she just some trinket? Something a child demanded and then forgot about once he was back home with the rest of his toys?

Hawke knew she was guilty of many sins. Murder and theft chief among them – though she would nearly always swear that the killing was mostly in self- defense. She'd never considered herself a prideful person. But now, she was beginning to realize that pride may be chief among her personal sins. Ignoring her worked quite well for her when she wanted or needed to be ignored. But this… this was a step too far. The more she found herself hating this lack of focus on her the more she reviled herself for it. She tried to reason it out in her head. So – she was being left to slowly wither away in a cell. Was it really so bad? Was it really that terrible to simply be one of a crowd of forgotten things in this dank swelter? Barely kept alive on leavings and murky water, existing and little else… was that truly so awful a fate? She could plan, she could seek an escape, she could…

But no. It _was_ that bad. It was awful. It was a tailor made punishment for someone too blinded by their own importance to truly see that they weren't important at all. She'd taken every bit of silly fawning and thank you's that had been lobbed at her over the last few years and, while outwardly claiming she didn't care about them at all, had tucked them away and guarded them jealously. She'd been buying into all the talk about her for so long that she'd forgotten who she had been in the first place. A refugee – a scavenger – not even ignored, simply never known. She was a shadow, made that way by her father and the reality of her family. But Kirkwall had changed her and made her into some sort of symbol, some story. And she'd lived off of that, needed it in a dark and secret little part of her heart.

And now, she was paying for that worm that she'd allow grow in her. Danarius only had to ignore her to torture her. He only had to do nothing to make her squirm. And as much as she hated it, she had to admire how insightful the man was. He'd seen truths in her nature that she wasn't even aware of, without so much as a moment of study, without more than a single feverish battle. Had he used some sort of blood magic? Had he divined her nature in the blood he'd pulled from her? She doubted it. He was simply every bit the calculating and fearsome monster that Fenris had always intimated. She had just been sure that Fenris had let fear outstrip sense.

And that then was her other great sin. She hadn't really taken to heart all his warnings. She had assumed she knew better, could be stronger to fill in his weak spots. The arrogance of it scalded her, moved her finally, up off the floor and set her to pacing.

He'd been her closest friend for years now, even when he was still unsure of how to even be a friend. From the moment of their meeting she'd appreciated his candor, his strength. He never got close to people for fear of what it would feel like once they were taken away – a lesson from his time with the Fog Warriors. And she… in some way she only truly got so close to Fenris because she knew that he'd never demand more of her than what she could give. Never demand anything at all, truthfully. His one request ever in the time they'd spent in each other's company had been her presence when he met his sister. He was… safe. He didn't lie, he didn't plot, he didn't even know how to simply be polite. He was so beautifully raw and real in a world that had only ever been full of vipers to Hawke. Every open hand followed by a fist, every welcoming doorway cover for a cage. But not Fenris. He gave what he had and never asked for anything in return.

And she'd repaid that by assuming she knew better. That she could deal with Danarius where he couldn't.

This cell was her penance for that. Every long hour a span of time for her to reflect on the ways in which she'd second guessed him, the ways she didn't help, the things she never got around to saying.

…..

Finally something happened. Hawke was standing in the middle of her cell wringing sweat from her shirt when the whole door – not just the grate – opened. She suddenly felt panicked. They actually came for her. Something was actually happening and she had no idea what to do. Attack? Stand here? Play dead?

She didn't have the opportunity to work through the avalanche of thoughts before two guards entered, grabbed her arms and shoved a bag over her head. It was exactly as it had been when leaving the ship except this time she was able to walk on her own. They held her at upper arm and wrist, both gripping brutally tight as if expecting her to try to flee at any moment. And normally, she absolutely would have. But she was… curious. What now after a full week in that cell could cause them to come get her? And why did she still need to be blinded as to where they were going?

Up sets of stairs, down corridors, pushed through doorways – she could feel the shapes of rooms change around her, the quality of the light through the hood shift. Some labyrinthine track through whatever this place was. She assumed that she was in Danarius's estate. The place where Fenris had been held humiliated, made a thing. He was an object to these people. Something used when convenient an put away an forgotten when he had no immediate use. It felt surreal in a way she wouldn't have ever been able to explain to anyone…. Anyone other than Fenris. It was surreal and it made her feel small, being carted around, not even deemed worthy enough to see where she was bloody going, as if it was all too grand for her to lay eyes on. Eventually through another door, into a room that felt humid and heavy, an echo off the walls that was different than the more polished rooms she'd been in before. She was pushed back against something solid and her hands were tied down with what felt like leather straps. Her ankles were bound as well and only then was the hood lifted off. So long in the dark had left her eyes woefully unaccustomed to light and this room was searing with it. Glowing orbs floating aloft like jellyfish festooned the ceiling, brighter than a hundred candles, leaving no shadows in the large room. The walls were roughly hewn, the floor was laid over with wood that was scarred and splotched with a pattern of blood stains like one of her battle scenes… like the floor of the Hanged Man as she watched Fenris was dragged away, painted a red stripe in his wake.

There before her was an array of men in robes stood around a central table not far from her, examining potions and strange instruments made of metal and glass. And there, at the head of the table was Danarius, arms folded across his chest, looking just as dour and snide as he had in the Hanged Man. It was the first time she'd seen him since he was draining her of blood, glutted with power. And now, he didn't even look at her. He was looking at his men, talking in low tones amongst themselves. Only when one of them broke away and moved closer did he focus his attention on her. And she was suddenly sorry that he had. She immediately felt like a bug, like something that was to be dissected. From the looks on the faces of the men approaching her, that's exactly what she was.

The first cast something at her, and she found herself pulling away in fear before whatever it was before it reached her, flinching at the light that coursed along his hands for a moment before it arced toward her. It was the first time in her life she'd ever recoiled in fear from magic. Her father had rarely displayed his magic in front of her unless it was in a lesson to Bethanny, but from her earliest memories she'd only thought of magic as something that some people could do and nothing to ever fear. But this… this magic and these people she feared innately. Something in her blood knew how wrong it was. Almost immediately upon the light touching her she went limp, the leather straps and the slight incline of the board the only thing keeping her upright, her feet sliding down to rest flat on the filthy wooden floor.

The whole group of them came forward brandishing thin knives and began cutting away her clothing and letting it drop in rags to the floor until she was completely bare. A multitude of indignitaties marched through her mind at the position she was in, what could be done to her, what their intent was.

After a moment of bland, studied observation, however, one produced a book and a quill and two others picked up instruments from the table. She didn't understand what was happening at first but it quickly became clear that they were… they were measuring her.

Her head, the space between her eyes, the length of her arms, her fingers, her legs. All meticulously calculated, recorded. The length of her toes, the length of her back, the width of her chest. She was put down in numbers on a piece of parchment, reduced and reduced and reduced. And Danarius,when she swiveled her eyes toward him, he smirked at her, watched as she was made a thing. Like Fenris had been. Like any number of people had been before him.

The tallying seemed to go on for ages. She was turned on the board and they began the same process on her back, finding great interest in the space between her shoulder blades, the length of her spine, measuring out the width of her ribs and the space between her bottom rib and her hip bone.

Eventually, after spending an interminable time with these ancient seeming men manipulating, measuring, putting her down in numbers, they righted her on the board and went back to their circle of muttering. Only Danarius watched her while they talked, his smirk in place, chin being worried at by his oddly long fingers.

He spoke quietly to one of the men nearly him and waved his hand vaguely, which ceased conversation and drove them to action again. One of the measurers came forward again, this time brandishing a minute blade, razor thin, something like a few of the scalpels that she knew Anders used occasionally when operating except that it had a bulky handle inscribed with glowing runes. He repositioned her arm, moving it so that the pale underside was exposed. He took a moment to run his fingers along the skin, closely examining the push back, the color, she could only guess what he was actually looking at. He took a long time at it as well, running his fingers over the patch of skin again and again. If she could have moved at all she would have shuddered. He bent low over her arm finally and brought the scalpel up, cutting a small patch, perhaps the length of a finger, along her arm just under her elbow. The cut was not bad. She'd suffered much deeper wounds on random forays into the market in Kirkwall on one of her worst days. The man gestured for a cloth, which was passed to him. He blotted away the blood and then, horribly, he pulled the cut apart with his fingers, pushing down, stretching the edges, pulling, making the blood flow resurge, which he quickly blotted away again. Waving his hand for something else he soon brought a vial of what Hawke was sure was lyrium dust in some kind of suspension. And then he poured it into the wound. He poured it right in to the cut. Is this how it had happened for Fenris? The intense burn of the metal dust as it settled into the cut, poured out and dripped off her arm was amazing. To have this… all over… to have this across an entire body… It was… all she could think about was Fenris, the way he recoiled from touch. She wanted to rip it out of her arm. She wanted to take the scalpel and gouge out the wound. But she couldn't move at all, couldn't even wave her arm, move with the pain, make any move at all. Endurance was all.

And then the rest of the men moved forward except for Danarius and they collectively peered at the cut like curious children. The pain was so intense, so all encompassing that she hardly had the wherewithal to follow what else they were doing.

…..

She'd stayed for hours at least strapped to the table. The immobility spell had worn off, so they'd tied her back down and then done a number of other tests. They'd cast spells at her to watch her react, forced tinctures down her throat and recorded how quickly it took them to come back up, what sort of pale and sick color she turned, how her heart raced, any number of different reactions they meticulously scribbled down. And then when they were done they gestured at the guards and she was hauled back out, no longer under her own power, feet dragged behind her. She was limp and drenched in sweat, wheezing air, too relieved that she was out of that room to even care that she was stark naked. They didn't bother with a hood on the way back and she didn't truly see where they were going anyway, her only view that of the variances in flooring types as they moved through areas. Rough stone, smoothed wood, beautiful stone floor inlaid with mother of pearl, precious metals, and fine marbles. She saw feet move quickly away from her and her guards, the feet of servants most likely – slaves, she corrected herself – these were slaves. And she was one of them.

Dumped back in her cell, she laid there for a long time on her back, stunned, aching. Eventually she rolled to her side, pulled her knees up to her chest and began to sob. She hadn't cried like that since she was a child, and extremely rarely even then. She felt so bereft. She was alone, tormented, frankly…. Terrified. So terrified.


End file.
